


when you open that door (everything will be right)

by pixiepower



Series: you know i’m one for the overly passionate [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Domestic, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Mirror Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, crop top mingyu, this is softer as it sounds as you may imagine, ’my normal romantic tenderhorny bullshit’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: For as long as Mingyu has known him, Minghao has put effort and heart into everything he does, doing something different, thinking outside the box, pure nerve ending and sinew of word and action and movement. Everything he creates is raw emotion, so unflappablyMinghaothat when Mingyu wears it, he feels warm. Loved. Held, touched, adored. Keeps Minghao with him wherever he goes.Except to auditions.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Xu Ming Hao | The8
Series: you know i’m one for the overly passionate [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1830082
Comments: 13
Kudos: 146





	when you open that door (everything will be right)

**Author's Note:**

> title from “home” by bts.
> 
> in my mind, this is a prequel to [what you do well, you should do to me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381314), an early moment several years into gyuhao’s relationship. it can be considered a standalone, though, so no obligation!
> 
> thank you as always, pey. the dog curse remains. will we ever be free?

“Hao,” Mingyu whines, “Have you seen my dress shirt? The brown one?”

Minghao’s silence rings loud in the apartment when Mingyu paws through his drawer, rifling past upcycled shirt after cutoff shirt, an infinity of them but for the one he’s looking for. He knows he folded it with the rest of the laundry and put it in here, neatly tucked away for when he needed it.

For all of Minghao’s attentiveness, his beautiful mind doesn’t often make a nest of household chores, doesn’t stack twigs and cotton of dishes and laundry to build something to live in. That’s always been Mingyu’s domain; as much as he feels like he could open up Minghao’s heart and live inside it, he wants to make their apartment feel like home, their shoebox of a place feel like a life. If Mingyu is the foundation, Minghao is the hearth.

“Minghao?”

There’s a gentle clatter in the kitchen like paint supplies being set down in the sink. “Mingyu?”

Crop top, crop top, crop top. There has to be at least _one_ unmodified shirt in here that will fit Mingyu. He hopes. He prays.

“Jagi, I have an _audition!”_ Mingyu calls frantically, trying not to sound panicked.

“Today?” Minghao responds from the kitchen over the sound of the tap running, undoubtedly washing paint off his hands.

Mingyu thinks that answer is a little cavalier for his taste, considering Mingyu is still in contact with his acting professors from university for opportunities, considering his resume is still a little light on bullet points, considering Minghao is endlessly supportive of his career choice and must be a little distracted for this to be all he offers him in his time of distress.

The drawer shuts with a muffled thud, the last t-shirt Mingyu looked at getting caught between the drawer and the frame. Mingyu tries to take a deep breath, feeling sweat drip down his back, and yanks off his shirt and shoves it in the laundry basket, tugging free the stuck shirt and pulling it on just for something to wear. 

He’s clicking through the hangers in the closet when Minghao wanders into the bedroom, a little sigh being all the herald Mingyu needs to feel his presence and feel the first puzzle piece get pressed into place.

“Mingyu? When is your audition?” Minghao’s voice softens when it hits the clothes in the closet.

Mingyu winces when the hangers screech along the rod when he shoves them to one side of the closet. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

Minghao’s cheek presses soft against Mingyu’s shoulderblade, and another piece connects to the first. Love washes through Mingyu, hearth and heart, and he takes a shaky breath. After a string of fruitless auditions, a veritable barren vine of them, Mingyu is feeling the pressure. Minghao’s day job has been supporting them for months now, and the guilt is starting to mount, bricks piled onto Mingyu’s back and the dust settling in his lungs.

Mingyu scrubs a hand over his face. “I love you, and I support your designs. You know that, right?”

A little soothing noise of acknowledgement from Minghao, wary on the edges but calm.

“I just. I could have sworn I had a full length shirt in here," Mingyu says in a small voice, trying to press down his stress, compact like espresso.

Always the tamper, Minghao knocks it loose with a tap. “Doesn’t this work just for now?”

Mingyu tries to laugh and is instantly embarrassed by how tearful it already sounds. “Sometimes I need a nice dress shirt for an audition that isn't cropped or painted, jagiya.”

A beat. Minghao’s face pulls back from where it’s warm on Mingyu’s back, leaving him feeling cold and guiltier than when he started.

By now Mingyu has learned that sometimes he just comes home and Minghao is cutting up and painting their clothes, tongue caught between his teeth and long fingers stretching fabric between his hands, paint splattering his jeans and smeared along his forearms as if by accident, the evidence of his hard work pressed into his skin, needle-prick band-aids and paint littering constellation and a headband pushing his bangs off his face. The front door will close and Minghao’s head will be bent toward his project spread out on the living room floor, fabric scraps braided next to his knee, and Mingyu coaxes him up for dinner by the lips, taking his hands in his and washing their hands together in the kitchen sink, the soapy slide of their fingers finding the crooks where they fit together. Mingyu noses at the soft spot under Minghao’s ear where it smells like him most, sweat and the shampoo they share and Minghao’s favorite cologne, letting water run over their twined hands and trying to press their skin close enough together that not even water can slide between them.

Some days Minghao will leap up at the sound of Mingyu’s key in the door, face shining with effort and lack of central air, saying, _Let me show you something,_ breathless with excitement and eagerness, pressing so many kisses to Mingyu’s face that the day’s bombed audition is wiped away and all there is is, _Look, it reminded me of you, I think you would look so good in something like this, will you try it on for me?_ The way it curls around Mingyu’s ear and feels like lips pressed to his aching heart, his tired shoulders, feels like _You know you’re my muse, bǎobèi?_ whispered into his ear when Minghao plucks at the seams and runs his perfect hands over Mingyu’s body in the clothes Minghao put together.

Two pairs of jeans hang on the wall, one splattered with the paint leftover from all of Minghao’s projects, built up from months of work, bright light wash next to a simple pair with hand-frayed rips all down the thighs, little painted paw prints wandering up the legs and a bright rainbowed handprint on the back pocket. Possessive in a way that ignites the feeling Mingyu gets around Minghao in public, when he turns and finds Minghao already looking at him.

Minghao’s cuts started out unsure, his concentrated purposefulness doing little to correct a wavering stitch here and there, but Mingyu thinks they’re perfect. Even the clumsy pieces are so earnestly fond of and clearly inspired by Mingyu that Mingyu wears them constantly, even now, the oversized sweatshirt Minghao made him for his birthday stretched across where his shoulders have broadened, the elbows wearing thin. _(“Ah, Mingyu, that ratty old thing? I can do so much better now, xīngān, that’s embarrassing.” “Don’t get rid of it! It’s my favorite.”)_

For as long as Mingyu has known him, Minghao has put effort and heart into everything he does, doing something different, thinking outside the box, pure nerve ending and sinew of word and action and movement. Everything he creates is raw emotion, so unflappably Minghao that when Mingyu wears it, he feels warm. Loved. Held, touched, adored. Keeps Minghao with him wherever he goes.

Except to auditions.

Mingyu is about to open his mouth, apologize profusely, when Minghao takes his hand and pulls him away from the flickering light in the closet they keep forgetting to tell the landlord about.

“Can you blame me, when you look like this?”

Minghao’s tone is heavy, weighing on Mingyu like blankets, like layers curled hot around him. He steps in close, hands winding around Mingyu’s neck, his fingers cool on the warm skin at the back of his collar. Mingyu’s eyes close, leaning into the soft caress of Minghao’s fingers tucking under the cotton neckline of what used to be a t-shirt. He expects a kiss to press to his lips where they’re upturned in a smile, but instead a soft giggle and sigh greet him, so close the choppy air of it tickles his nose.

“Haohao,” Mingyu says, one eye opening to find Minghao’s face scrunched in concentration again.

Minghao’s fingers smooth over the shoulders of Mingyu’s shirt, tugging the hem at the armhole flat, thumbs digging in gently into the meat of Mingyu’s bicep where definition is starting to appear. “My handsome man. You’re not going to get all chiseled on me, are you? You promise?” Minghao smiles, one edge of his lips tugging up into his cheek.

Mingyu feels bashful heat simmer under his skin, bubbling up and evaporating somewhere near his ears. Minghao’s face softens, and he leans in, the length of his body pressing chest to chest, cheek to cheek, flush against Mingyu’s. Only then does he press a kiss to Mingyu’s skin, on the shell of his pinkening ear. One of Minghao’s hands encircles Mingyu’s bicep, squeezing gently at the muscle.

The other slides, flat-palmed, down the worn cotton, slowly moving down the line of Mingyu’s chest. Fingertips skim the new hem of the shirt, just above his bellybutton. Find their way to Mingyu’s stomach, splaying over the soft flat of his exposed tummy, nails tracing delicately and flinting something warm underneath Mingyu’s skin, something like a hunger and a safety.

“Wouldn’t want to lose this, even when you get your big break,” Minghao hums against Mingyu’s ear, his breath catching a little.

Mingyu feels a little breathless himself. “Minghao.”

 _Mm?_ is all Minghao can muster, and it’s hardly a question for the hot, weighted way his broad, delicate hand moves like magma from the middle of Mingyu’s stomach to a hip. His thumb catches on the little bow tied at the top of his sweatpants on the way, and Mingyu feels his stomach tense with anticipation at the shift of fabric over his body. Minghao’s eyes trail back up Mingyu’s body, his singular focus fixed on his face now.

Minghao’s eyes finding his will always knock the wind out of Mingyu. Catching his gaze across the hall in high school, watching his face light up over a throng of classmates, feeling the telltale swoop in his stomach of _that’s him. That’s him, for me,_ and being terrified but knowing they can get through it together. Minghao pressing in close for the first time, murmuring, _We’re going to be okay. It’s us. Do you want to do this?,_ his eyes locked on Mingyu’s before his mouth dips to press against his. Laughing in the grocery store, calling love across the aisles like they’re the only two around. It’s heady, knowing that Minghao only has eyes for him. That even while they're out and about, it’s them alone. 

Minghao's intense eyes leave a trail of flames, Mingyu’s body the gasoline, his hands wildfire on the skin exposed by his crop top, the raw hem of it fluttering over Minghao’s knuckles.

“It’s not about this, is it?” Minghao asks, his other hand tracing down Mingyu’s side to dig his thumbs into the soft skin at the side of his belly, the rest of his fingers curling around his waist. “About wearing this. It’s something else.”

His hands slide along Mingyu’s waist until he’s pressed in full against his back, thighs cradled behind Mingyu’s, chin hooked over his shoulder, and looking at them both together in the full-length mirror where it’s hung on the closet door.

“Are you nervous for your audition?”

Mingyu closes his eyes. Listens to Minghao breathe against the nape of his neck, his hot breath tingling down his spine. Lets him move his hands over his tummy, pads of his fingers walking across it. Any apprehension he feels narrows into twelve points of contact spread over his skin, fingertips and meat of his palms magnifying it like Minghao can extract the emotion from him. Thinks if anyone could have a gift like that, it’s his boyfriend.

Mingyu knows he’s projecting, manifesting his anxiety into something concrete, his nervousness about wearing something that bares his midriff feeling less like a nightmare easily overcome by waking, feeling less like the easy thing Mingyu normally enjoys with confidence and more like a physical reminder that this is his biggest opportunity ever. That if he messes this up, if they don’t want him, if they don’t like him—

“Mingyu.”

“Yes, I’m nervous. I’m terrified,” Mingyu laughs, tipping his head to the side to feel it rest on Minghao’s head. His hair is soft, smelling like their shampoo, all eucalyptus mint but for the little white acrylic streak pinching a few strands together. Mingyu only notices when it pokes his cheek.

“I’m proud of you, bǎobèi. I’m sorry about your shirts. I’ll get you another one,” Minghao says quietly. “But, you know… You aren’t failing us if this doesn’t work out. You deserve to have your dreams come true. I want us to know that we’ve given it our all. And if you change your mind, we’ll chase the new dream together. Okay? I love you. We’re together.”

Mingyu opens his eyes. Minghao is already looking at him through the reflection of the mirror, a little smile playing on his face.

“You and me,” Minghao says like a promise, and nudges at Mingyu’s arm until Mingyu rests his hands over Minghao’s on his middle. Their fingers interlock, nestling into one another, Minghao all silver and iron and Mingyu bronze and gold. Minghao’s thumb rubs over the strip of skin on Mingyu’s finger where a ring might sit, and something inside Mingyu swoops helplessly.

“You and me.” Mingyu stares at their hands in the mirror, then sighs, letting his shoulders relax a little and his smile reappear. “I love you. You really think I look good?”

Minghao laughs, his eyes sparkling crescents, and he murmurs against Mingyu’s shoulderblade, “Mm. _There_ he is.” Mingyu pouts and Minghao smacks a kiss over the fabric there, his body pushing up closer and hands fidgeting. “Yeah, I do. It wasn’t an accident most of your shirts ended up sleeveless crop tops, you know.”

Mingyu’s body and his heart feel lighter, but heat rises, and Minghao’s fingers loosen from Mingyu’s and trail feather-light comets, sparking sunflares up his body, settling in his chest.

“Do you want to touch me?” Mingyu responds, going for teasing but voice coming out aching instead.

In response he feels Minghao’s hands shift, one dragging downward to tease at him through his joggers, the other staying put on his stomach. The feeling of Minghao’s hand moving on him is impossible not to lean into, and soon Mingyu is biting at his bottom lip, grinding his hips slow against Minghao’s palm, feeling himself swell under his touch. 

“Always, bǎobèi,” Minghao sighs. “Hard to take you out, honestly. Always just want to bring you back home.”

“Minghao,” Mingyu groans, eyes glued to the place where Minghao’s kneading at him, working him over through the soft cotton of his sweatpants. He can feel Minghao’s own hips starting to press against him, and starts rocking back and forth, forward into Minghao’s hand and back against where his jeans are starting to fill out.

“See how hot you are,” Minghao murmurs, and pulls his hand up to chuck Mingyu’s chin, tip it up so the plane of his neck is exposed. His fingertips trail slow like cinematography over the line of Mingyu’s neck, and Mingyu sees as much as he feels his mouth drop open, a familiar hunger clawing its way up his throat, ready to bubble out. “Yeah? You want me to take care of you here?”

Mingyu swallows and nods, and Minghao’s fingers trace Mingyu’s lower lip before nodding too. 

“Stay here for a second. I’ll be right back.”

Without Minghao on him to distract, all Mingyu can see in the mirror is his chest heaving with labored breathing, the tent in his grey sweatpants, the part of his lips, petal-pink where they’re bite-swollen, the way his own hands don’t fill all the exposed space at his belly without Minghao’s entangled and moving. There’s no tension, though, stringing his body like holiday lights, just anticipation and desire painted over Mingyu as he waits for Minghao to return.

And return Minghao does, jeans shucked and the band of his burgundy underwear hugging his narrow hips, the shadow cupping his half-hard cock drawing Mingyu’s eye when he steps in close again, the little tube in his hand yanking breath out of Mingyu’s lungs.

“Good?” Minghao laughs, and Mingyu pouts again, knowing full well his face is flushed, burning with want. Minghao doesn’t look unaffected himself, rocking his hips experimentally against the side of Mingyu’s thigh. “Okay. Just like this.”

He presses in close, body cradling Mingyu’s, dropping kisses to the nape of his neck while his hands shuffle behind Mingyu, the crimped edge of the lube scratching benignly at the small of his back. Soon, Minghao’s hand returns to Mingyu’s hip, tugging the back of his joggers down over the swell of his ass.

“Fuck,” Minghao says, kneading a dry hand over Mingyu’s ass, tapping it with his fingers, digging his fingertips into the flesh of it and making a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. The look on his face in the mirror is devastating. Never fails to make Mingyu feel like he’s in the maw of a dragon, teeth and tongue and flame licking over him. Mingyu stumbles back with a tidal wave of arousal, punching a gasp of a laugh out of Minghao. “You okay, bǎobèi?”

Mingyu whimpers, his knees feeling weak, and buckles back to press in full against Minghao’s chest. “You look like you want to eat me.”

Minghao makes a considering little noise, slipping his other hand down the back of Mingyu’s pants, thumbnail running over the cleft where it meets his thigh, just above where the grey cotton is bunched up. “I do love that. But I had a different idea.” A warm, slick fingertip circles Mingyu’s hole, and Mingyu’s head falls back, even as his eyes are trained on the arch of his back, the way Minghao’s hand cradles the dip of his hip and keeps him steady, arms flexing in his dirty t-shirt (uncropped, the bastard. Turnabout is fair play).

“Hao, _God,_ jagiya, more. _More._ You know I can take it.”

Mingyu’s hips work back and forth in desperate little circles until he feels Minghao slide in a finger, watching his body roll against Minghao’s hand, the rhythm of it hot and heavy and purposeful like when they make time to go dancing, like their second time at the club in Itaewon because they were too nervous to go all out the first time. (The third time, Mingyu sucked Minghao off in the bathroom, so, learning curve.)

“You’re so beautiful,” Minghao says, indulging Mingyu with the press of the pad of another finger, rubbing gently until Mingyu begs for more.

Mingyu hears it like the first time every time Minghao calls him beautiful, feels like the half-bitten confession with legs tangled together from when they were teenagers, how wide-eyed and awake Mingyu felt when Minghao said it in the dark, the streetlights at the end of the block barely touching Minghao’s profile in the driver’s seat. How sure he seemed then, and how he only got surer as the years went by. 

How easy it comes to Mingyu to reciprocate, too, to press it against Minghao’s fingertips, to say it with gifts and with every beat of his heart, truer than life and easier than breathing.

Minghao lets Mingyu whine and writhe against him as he shudders, rising onto the balls of his feet and dropping back to let Minghao slowly fuck him, keeping him steady with words and action alike. Keeping Mingyu’s foundation solid, lighting his fire. It’s all Mingyu can do to watch himself arch his back, rock noisily against Minghao’s hand and listen to Minghao breathing hard and moaning intermittently.

The weight of Minghao’s hand on his lower belly keeps him close, the feeling of his fingers tucked inside him making Mingyu want to shove himself down and back, get more leverage, press himself closer to Minghao. But Minghao is good at slowing him, at guiding his energy into something constructive, at reminding him that there is something unwavering in his life, something unshakeable.

“You’re so good. Always so good, so handsome. In a few—few years,” Minghao exhales sharply, “Going to be able to brag about you. Point to billboards and magazines and say, _he’s mine, that’s my man,”_ Minghao is murmuring, and crooks his fingers a little, coaxing out a shaky gasp from Mingyu.

The press of Minghao’s fingers in him will probably be enough to push Mingyu over the edge, has certainly been enough before. It’s one of Mingyu’s favorite ways to languor in Minghao’s care, the feeling of his hands taking him apart second only to his praise, and Mingyu knows, suddenly, as he shoves his face into the hot crook of Minghao’s neck, that this is it. 

That this is it for him, forever, probably. That he’ll be the one pointing to a storefront saying, _I’m in love with the man who designed that, that’s my man,_ and _I’m wearing a Xu Minghao original, actually._ That in a couture suit or a ratty sweatshirt they’re always going to have this, each other, and Mingyu is always going to be Minghao’s. 

They build this life together, and the windows and doors are wide open. Breezes blow.

“Just like that, like that, like that, yes—” As he begs and bears down, Mingyu’s legs are shaking, and he can see his flush going up his neck and sweat pouring down his chest, Minghao rocking up against him, as gently as he can with his dick hard in his boxers, wet with wanting, panting as much into his ear. 

The arm holding Mingyu up, hand to tummy, is corded with effort, and it’s so sexy, Mingyu might cry, could monologue and wax poetic, dedicate Shakespeare and soliloquy, would ace every audition if he were able to go on about it. 

Minghao’s wrist turns a little with the effort, and curls his fingers just right, and with a drawn-out, “Oh, my God,” Mingyu jerks, orgasm crashing through him, knees buckling in earnest. Mingyu’s hands fly out to grab at Minghao’s arm and the edge of the mirror in front of him, where he watches himself shudder and shake and fall apart, face contorted with pleasure and affection and toes curling in the ugly 80s holdover carpet. His fingers clutch at both, nails scrabbling to hold himself up.

“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,” Minghao pleads, withdrawing his lube-wet hand from Mingyu, tugging Mingyu down to his knees and pulling him in by the waist to crash their lips together.

It’s all but impossible to look away from Minghao, his face dazed and eyes hungry and sharp trained on Mingyu, the hand that was just inside Mingyu shoved down the front of his underwear to jerk himself off, quick and needy.

“Jagi, here—” Mingyu pulls down Minghao’s underwear, head swimming at the sight of his wet cock and Minghao’s fingers wrapped loose around it, moving fast and single-mindedly. He meets Minghao’s high little moans with kisses, mouth catching the filth sweet as honey on his tongue, before tugging Minghao’s free hand up between them to his lips, kissing the inside of his wrist. 

Minghao’s hand cradles Mingyu’s face, frantic on his skin, his neck, his hair, back to his mouth, and Mingyu lets his lips part again, laves Minghao’s fingers into his mouth, making needy little noises around them just like Minghao likes. Swallows, feels his tongue lick over the slope of Minghao’s fingers between the joints, doesn’t drop eye contact with Minghao. Knows his face is hopelessly in love, probably debauched as all hell, and feels the tug of a smile where his lips stretch around three of Minghao’s fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, Mingyu, seriously? God, I’m—”

Pride blooms in Mingyu’s chest as he blinks at Minghao, eyes wide and pretty. (He hopes, anyway.) Torso to torso, thigh to thigh, Mingyu presses their bodies together, and Minghao ruts up against him again, again, before a crackling moan and stutter of his hips conclude with Minghao painting the low of Mingyu’s stomach white.

“Rug burn,” Mingyu pants when Minghao pulls his wet hand out of his mouth and wipes them on Mingyu’s ruined sweatpants. “What are we, nineteen?”

Minghao’s breathless giggle and kiss that’s more teeth than tender meet him close, and he looks like he wants to run his fingers through Mingyu’s hair, if the doleful look on his face when his gaze traces Mingyu’s hairline is any indication. “Feels like it sometimes. Sometimes I think about when we were. How it felt like we didn’t have anything figured out. How it feels like that now, but we know we’ve come further than we could have dreamt back then.”

“I was just thinking about that,” Mingyu admits. “Makes me excited for the future.”

It sounds like a scary thing to admit. In dramas, in movies, these conversations are had screaming, crying, terrified. And Mingyu is often afraid. But never of this. Never of Minghao, of his heart, of his hands, of what he and Minghao could do to one another.

There’s a delighted little hum from Minghao, who presses fluttering little kisses to Mingyu’s temple and the apples of his cheeks. “Me too.” He pauses, tugging at Mingyu’s hand, and threads their fingers together. “You’re going to do great tomorrow. I can feel it.”

He doesn’t say it, doesn’t say _this might be the one,_ but Mingyu feels it, too, in his chest and in his gut. Somewhere below where come stripes his exposed midriff. All things in balance.

With a slow, infatuated grin, Mingyu tips himself over, leaning into Minghao’s sticky embrace, and feels the bones of his house settle, and a fire gets tended in the hearth.

•

In the late morning when Mingyu wakes up, the scrawl looks less rushed than usual when Mingyu reads the note left on a torn scrap of paper, and it takes Mingyu less than a minute to let his head translate the Chinese. When he does, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to wipe the smile off his face.

_Had to go to work, but I picked something up for you to wear today. Break a leg. I love you._

There’s a crisp new button-up shirt lying on Mingyu’s bedside, a beautiful blue. The Chanel earrings Mingyu bought Minghao secondhand for his last birthday are pinned through the cuff, and when Mingyu looks through his sides one last time before he leaves, he knows Minghao is with him.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/pixiepowerao3) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


End file.
